Glad Tidings
by Joodiff
Summary: It's entirely likely Boyd will live to regret asking Eve to babysit a visitor who arrives at HQ to see Grace, who's stuck in traffic... Same universe as, and follows "The Dinner Party" and "Again". T-rated for language. Complete. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER**: I own nothing

_**A/N:** this is set in the same universe as my fics _"The Dinner Party"_ and _"Again"_, and closely follows the latter, chronologically. It's for Got Tea and missDuncan who wanted to see Simon return again, and is my half of a deal with both for new fics in exchange. Enjoy!_

* * *

**Glad Tidings**

by Joodiff

* * *

"And," Eve continues, before Boyd can interrupt yet again, "I have the toxicology report for the Victoria Road case. Cause of death appears to have been ingestion of cantharidin."

The CCU's commander frowns at her across the width of his desk. "Canthar-what?"

"Cantharidin," she repeats, handing a printed sheet of paper to him. "Commonly known as Spanish fly."

His eyebrows rocket as he glances at the complicated chemical analysis. "Spanish fly? As in…?"

"As in, yes," Eve confirms as he passes the results back to her. She understands his surprise. "Historically used as an aphrodisiac. Externally, it acts as a blistering agent, but if taken internally… Well, let's just say if you swallow enough of it to kill you, it won't be a pleasant death."

It's become a long-standing tradition, this regular mid-morning Friday meeting in his office. The one time in the week when Eve can more-or-less guarantee Boyd will sit still enough for long enough for her to brief him on everything relating to the unit's dedicated lab that in any way requires his attention. By necessity, things are very different during the tense, busy days of an active investigation, but pinning him down to an inviolable scheduled meeting – a trick she very quickly learned from Grace – is enough to keep things running smoothly on a week-to-week basis. Sometimes she's in and out of his office within twenty minutes, dismissed quickly and brusquely because he has other things on his mind, sometimes there's time for coffee and interesting conversation. Today's meeting is evolving into something close to the latter.

"So… what…?" Boyd inquires, picking up the still gently steaming mug dumped unceremoniously next to him by Kat just a few minutes earlier. "Are we thinking death by misadventure?"

"Starting to look that way," Eve agrees, reaching for her own mug. "I'll know more next week when the rest of the test results come back."

"Hell of a price to pay for a hard-on," he comments straight-faced, sipping coffee.

It might be unprofessional, but she can't help smirking. "Don't fancy trying it, then, Boyd?"

"Any passing interest I might have had in the idea disappeared completely at the words 'blistering agent'," he tells her, expression and tone remaining deadpan. The dark eyes, though, show a sudden mischievous spark of lively humour that tells her he's on good form today.

"There's some evidence to suggest that in small quantities it _is_ fit for purpose. It does cause a great deal of swelling." His exaggerated answering shudder makes her chuckle. Beyond the confines of his office, somewhere in the gloomy far reaches of the squad room, a telephone starts to shrill. Someone – presumably Kat – answers it within a couple of rings. Swallowing another mouthful of coffee, Eve continues, "If ingested, in small doses it's not fatal, but if Coates was messing around with it without knowing exactly what he was doing…"

Boyd winces. "Yeah, I get the picture. I'll leave it with you, then. Keep me updated."

"I will," she confirms with a nod, returning the results to the folder she brought with her from the lab.

A quiet tap on the glass door behind her draws Boyd's attention. "Yeah?"

Glancing round, Eve sees the door open a crack and Kat's head appear. Chestnut curls frame a young, earnest face. "That was the front desk, sir. There's a guy here to see Grace."

"Grace," their commander responds with glacial imperturbability, "is doubtless stuck in traffic somewhere between here and Dalston. Manifestly, she isn't _here_. Why are you bothering _me_ with this?"

Despite superficial appearances, he's distantly fond of Kat, Eve knows. Something to do with his well-known penchant for surrounding himself with people who catch his attention, people who intrigue him. The insolent, the insubordinate, the singular, and the just plain… strange. He takes them all into the unit – if he sees something in them, a certain undisciplined potential, maybe, that he thinks he can somehow exploit to enhance the CCU's impressive success rate. Quite what that says about her – about _any_ of them – Eve isn't entirely sure.

Kat's response is predictably blunt. "Well, what else was I supposed to do? He told them he was expected."

"And have you checked Grace's desk diary?" The question is delivered with the kind of considered calm that never bodes well for the person on the receiving end. The kind of calm that often precedes a brief, deafening spike of temper.

She nods. "Nothing written in for this morning."

"Well?" Boyd demands, more overtly impatient now. "Who is he? What does he want?"

Kat's expression turns sullen. "I'll go and find out."

"Why don't you go and do that, Detective Constable," he tells her, and then, as their colleague retreats, adds only to Eve a weary, "Jesus… It's not just me, is it?"

"No," Eve reassures him, reining in the impulse to grin at his annoyance, "it's not. But you did rather bring on yourself."

He scowls. "By giving her a damn job, you mean?"

"Exactly."

"An elementary mistake that I must remember to rectify at some point," he growls, but they both know he doesn't mean a word of it.

"Dalston?" Eve queries as he leans back in his chair. "Grace is seeing her oncologist today?"

Boyd nods. "Just a routine check-up. She hasn't mentioned it?"

"Not to me."

His expression becomes pensive. "Well, that's good, I suppose. Isn't it?"

"Almost certainly," she agrees, both because she believes it and because she feels a sudden, strong need to reassure him. It isn't only Grace who's been thoroughly battered by the events of the last few months. Boyd has suffered, too, in his own way. It's not easy to watch a… friend… go through such an unpleasant ordeal. "If she was worried, I'm sure she would have said something to me."

"Yeah."

There are so many other things she could say, Eve knows, but he wouldn't welcome any of them. What Boyd and Grace get up to together when the working day is over and done might well be the CCU's worst-kept secret, but it _is_ still a secret. Supposedly. One of those delicate things that there's a tacit agreement never to mention.

Kat reappears. "Doctor Simon Thompson from the Shawcroft Trust."

The words have a startling effect on Boyd. He sits up straight in his chair, all his attention suddenly focused on his junior officer. Dark eyebrows draw together in a tight frown. "Shit."

Kat looks bewildered. A state Eve shares. "Sir?"

"Oh, for fuck's bloody sake…" A taut, barely audible mutter. Closely followed by, "Tell them to sign him in and stick a visitor's badge on him, and then get someone to go and fetch him."

"There isn't anyone," Kat tells him with a listless shrug. "Spence is out, Ellison and Yardley are interviewing the Wright woman, and – "

"Then _you_ do it," Boyd barks at her. "Christ, it's not exactly fucking rocket science, is it?"

The response is sulky. "Sir."

As Kat withdraws for the second time, Eve raises her eyebrows. "Problem?"

"Huh?" Boyd frowns again. "Oh. No. No, not exactly."

Searching her memory, Eve queries, "The Shawcroft Trust? That's a mental health charity, isn't it?"

"Yeah. He's a damned psychologist, too. Thompson."

"Oh, I see." She says it blithely enough, but in truth Eve isn't sure she does. It's not unusual for Grace to have such visitors, but there's something more than a little odd about Boyd's reaction to Kat's news. Curiosity piqued, she adds, "And he is…?"

"A friend." The reply is grudging. She thinks it's the only answer she's going to get, but then he continues, "Well, a friend of _hers_, really. Or rather… Oh, look, it doesn't matter. I need a favour, Eve. I have Ken Pearson from the CPS coming in to see me at eleven…"

"…and you need someone to babysit Thompson until Grace gets here?" she guesses. "Someone who isn't Kat?"

He gives her a rueful half-smile. "Right first time."

Shrugging, Eve says, "Well, I could give him a tour, if you like. Edited highlights only, of course."

"Thanks, Eve." Boyd gets to his feet, a sure signal that their routine meeting is over. "Was there anything else…?"

"Nope," she says, following him up, "we've covered pretty much everything. Oh, except the thorny matter of the extra lab technician I keep begging you for."

"I'm working on it. Juggling the figures takes time."

"Yeah." He's doing his best, she knows. Budget cut after budget cut has befallen the CCU in the last couple of years, and he's made it quite clear to her what getting her the extra help she so desperately needs in the lab will entail. It's the one part of his job that no-one at all envies, and the one he hates with a passion. Boyd, as he so frequently announces at high volume, is a detective not a – expletive deleted – accountant.

"Um," he says, as he rounds the desk and starts to shepherd her towards the door. "Thompson…"

"Yes?" Eve asks, intrigued by his tentative tone.

"He's… a bit of a character, shall we say."

Interesting. "Oh?"

Boyd does not look at all comfortable. Scratching at his beard, a sure sign of unease, he continues, "He's a decent enough bloke, and he's been a good friend to Grace over the last few years, but…" He lets the sentence trail, shrugs his broad shoulders. "Well, just… take anything he says with a pinch of salt, eh? A very large one."

Even more intrigued, Eve inquires, "Meaning?"

The look he gives her is steady, contemplative. "You'll find out. Look, I'm counting on your absolute discretion here, Eve. For Grace's sake as much as for mine."

Curiouser and curiouser, as the old saying goes. Eve, however, is not Alice, and the CCU most certainly isn't Wonderland. She emulates his shrug. "Okay."

Boyd's intense gaze doesn't waver, but it seems he's finally satisfied because he turns away to open the office door for her. "Come on, I'll introduce you."

-oOo-

Simon Thompson is tall – taller even than Boyd – fair-haired and stocky, with a neatly-trimmed sandy moustache and wire-framed round-lensed glasses that make him look a little like a large, friendly, if faintly world-weary owl. Late fifties, Eve guesses, though it's difficult to judge precisely. He could easily be a shade younger or older. A conservative grey suit is partnered with an unremarkable pale blue shirt and an astonishingly bright, jagged-patterned tie that suggests that its owner _really_ doesn't mind being noticed. As he approaches them, ambling beside Kat, the clear grey eyes behind the John Lennon-esque glasses seem to survey the world with an intelligent, quizzical curiosity that reminds Eve a little of Grace. When he speaks, his voice matches his stature. Deep and confident, with a mild sardonic edge as he drawls, "_Lovely_ place you have here, dear boy. Very… Stygian."

Boyd ignores the gibe, responds with, "Grace isn't here at the moment, but she shouldn't be too long."

Their visitor does not seem concerned by the news. "She did mention that she might be a little late, yes."

"Right. Well, I'm afraid I have an important meeting that I really can't reschedule at this late stage, so," Boyd turns a fraction, waves vaguely at Eve, "this is Doctor Lockhart, our pathologist and forensics expert. She'll give you a brief tour of the place, if you're interested."

"Splendid," Simon says, with what seems to be genuine enthusiasm. He thrusts a large, well-manicured hand towards Eve. "Simon Thompson. Witch doctor. Pleased to meet you, Doctor – "

"Eve," she interrupts, taking his hand to shake it. Soft skin, no calluses. Strong grip, though. "'Witch doctor'?"

"Psychologist," he clarifies with an easy smile, telling her what she already knows. He releases her hand. "Though _some_ would say…"

"He means me," Boyd puts in, blunt, but surprisingly unruffled. "There's tea or coffee, if you want it. Eve's doing me a huge favour, so do your bloody best not to completely traumatise her, eh?"

"No idea _what_ you're trying to imply," Simon replies, but Eve does not miss the clear glitter of amusement in his eyes. Burning with curiosity, she glances from one man to the other and back.

"Hm," is Boyd's only response before turning his attention to Kat. "See if you can get hold of Grace, tell her that her… visitor… has arrived."

"Sir."

A final nod, and Boyd retreats back into his office. Gathering herself, Eve says, "If you'd like to follow me, Doct – "

"Simon," he corrects her with another smile, even wider and friendlier than the first.

"Simon," she agrees. "Would you like a drink, or…?"

"Let's start with the tour," he suggests. "Grace has told me a lot about your officially-sanctioned dungeon over the last few years. Fascinating to finally see it for myself."

Not knowing what else to do, Eve gestures around her at the big, gloomy space. "Well, this is the main squad room, as you can see. The unit currently has three detectives, two trainee detectives and four ordinary constables, plus myself, Grace, and half-a-dozen or so civilian support and lab staff. That's Boyd's office, obviously. Through there are the holding cells, interview rooms and that sort of thing. Grace has commandeered that corner over there, but – "

"Your estimable commander keeps promising her that she'll have her own space again _very soon_."

"Um, yes." Eve nods, not sure what to make of the knowing, conspiratorial look he gives her in return. "Right, so… If we go this way…"

-oOo-

He's definitely gay. Not that it matters in the slightest. Eve doesn't make snap judgements about people, and nor does she believe in encouraging herself to think in stereotypes, but Simon Thompson is _definitely_ gay. Not one of Grace's small coterie of late-middle-aged admirers, then, academics all. _Almost_ all, she mentally corrects herself, thinking briefly of a fiery, impatient exception to the rule who's never been known to be particularly charitable to anyone male who displays more than a passing interest in the woman in question. Focusing her wandering thoughts, she says, "And this is a thermal cycler, which helps us amplify DNA. Very useful when working with degraded samples."

"Fascinating," Simon murmurs, peering in evident interest at the machine in question. "I'm beginning to understand why Peter has nightmares about the level of finance required to keep this whole operation running."

_Peter_. It still sounds incredibly strange to her. Eve's not sure she's ever heard anyone refer to Boyd by his first name before. Except… except Linda. The late unlamented Linda Cummings. Casting a sideways look at her companion, she says, "He's had a few skirmishes with both the Home Office and the Yard over it."

"I would dare to suggest that's something of an understatement," Simon says, "but in my – admittedly limited – experience, what Peter wants, Peter gets. In the end. One way or another."

It's perceptive and accurate, and it seems an ideal moment to ask, "Have you know him long?"

"Getting on for five years, I suppose," is his languid reply. The grey eyes, though, are sharp, their gaze analytical. "We have a few mutual friends."

Friends. Funny, it's difficult to picture Boyd sharing his off-duty hours with friends. Ridiculous, really. He's as entitled as any of them to have a perfectly ordinary private life away from work. "I see."

"Actually," Simon continues, his tone mild and relaxed, "I first met them both at the same dinner party. Peter _and_ Grace. A well-meaning friend who didn't realise they were… previously acquainted… tried to set them up together."

Wide-eyed, Eve can't help staring at him. Her mind tries – and fails – to process the notion. "Seriously?"

"On my life," he declaims with an animated smirk. "It was a somewhat awkward evening, as I recall."

"I… can imagine." She can't though, not really. Boyd and Grace? Set up together by a third party at some non-work-related social event?

"Of course," Simon adds, the volume of his voice lowering a fraction, "between you and me, dear Elaine was right – I really can't think of two people more fundamentally suited to each other."

Not sure what on earth to say in response, Eve settles for a noncommittal noise. How much, she wonders, does he _really_ know about the mysterious, enigmatic relationship between the CCU's commander and his critical if tenaciously loyal right-hand woman, and how much is pure conjecture?

He gives her another long, penetrating look. "Oh, dear. Have I said too much?"

A lesser woman might start to squirm under that interrogative gaze. Eve merely mutters, "Erm…"

"It's an unfortunate tendency I have," he admits with a languid wave of his hand. "Drives my other half – Ian – mad."

Ian. No great surprise there. Still floundering, she manages, "Well, I… um…"

"I'll tell you what," Simon suggests, his tone turning easy again, "let's forget I said a single word, and concentrate on the dead people. You _do_ have some dead people to show me?"

Eve's eyes slide to the refrigerated lockers at the far end of the lab. "I'm not sure it would be quite ethical of me to…"

"No," he agrees with what looks like a regretful nod. "You're probably quite right. Respect for the dead, and all that. I do apologise. Very bad taste."

"It's a central tenet of the unit," she hears herself say. It sounds ridiculously pompous. "Boyd insists on it."

"I'm quite sure he does. The man may have an _extraordinarily_ dark sense of humour, but he's very… principled."

"Yes." The conversation is becoming more and more stilted. She looks round for inspiration, finds none. Clutching at straws, she tries, "You don't do any forensic work yourself?"

"God, no," is Simon's vehement reply. "I honestly couldn't do what Grace does. Far too much responsibility, for one thing, and… well, not to put too fine a point on it, much too damned scary. No, I'll stick to guiding wealthy suburban housewives through their existential crises. Much safer than trying to unpick the minds of serial killers."

He's down-playing his own work, she's certain. There's no doubt in her mind that he's every bit as shrewd, intelligent and experienced as Grace herself, and presumably just as lauded in his chosen field of expertise. She's about to suggest as much when the phone on her desk starts to ring. Excusing herself, she goes to answer it. Lifting the receiver without glancing at the caller identification, she says, "Doctor Lockhart."

"Eve," a pleasant but slightly anxious female voice says in return. "I just had a call from Kat. I gather you're babysitting for me?"

"I am," she agrees, amused despite the awkwardness of the situation.

A tiny pause is followed by, "Please tell me he's behaving himself?"

Eying the back of Simon's head as he peers in interest at a collection of fibre samples awaiting analysis, Eve nods. "So far, despite all the dire warnings."

"Boyd." It's not a question.

"Who else?"

"I'm about fifteen minutes away," Grace informs her, "maybe a fraction less. Can I have a word with him?"

Momentarily confused, Eve blinks. "Boyd?"

"Simon."

"Oh." To the man on the other side of the lab she calls, "It's Grace. She'd like a word."

Simon turns, smiling in an innocent, cherubic sort of way that Eve distrusts on sight. "Well, of _course_ she would."

-oOo-

"Coffee," Eve announces, handing over a thin cardboard cup, "though it probably tastes more like tea mixed with oxtail soup."

Simon eyes the brown liquid with thoughtful distaste. "Lovely. Thank you. I think."

"They have a cafetière in the squad room," she informs him, with only a trace of residual bitterness, "but I'm afraid the rest of us have to make do with an extremely temperamental old vending machine."

"You should threaten strike action," Simon tells her as she settles herself at her desk. Seated at right-angles to her, he plucks idly at his borrowed lab coat. "And as for being forced to wear _this_ sort of thing all day long…"

"It's not a job for the fashion-conscious," Eve admits with a wry smile.

Simon grimaces. "Somehow I really can't picture He Who Must Be Obeyed dressed in one of these."

"No designer label?" she guesses.

He nods. "Exactly. Unless Armani have recently decided to branch out?"

"Not to my knowledge." Eve shakes her head and adds, "Whatever you do, please don't put that idea in his head."

Simon laughs, the sound deep and good-natured. "I shall keep it firmly to myself, my dear. Though I think we could count on Grace to very quickly bring him back down to earth. She has an unrivalled ability to contain his wilder flights of fancy."

"Apparently so," she murmurs, wondering once again how much he does or doesn't know about the true nature of the unquestionably complicated relationship between her two older colleagues.

Simon turns his head to pin her with another incisive look. From nowhere he says, "He's good for her, you know."

It's unexpectedly frank, and for a moment Eve's not sure how to respond. Eventually, she shrugs. "It's none of my business."

"Diplomatic," he drawls, "but not exactly honest, I suspect. She's very fond of you. They both are. The way I hear it, you were a very staunch friend and ally just when they both needed it the most. Cancer, as I'm sure you're very well aware, doesn't just take it's toll on the body, and it doesn't just affect the sufferer."

"Very true," Eve agrees. Something about his manner makes her let down her guard a little. Fiddling with her own paper cup, she says, "In some ways Grace was almost more phlegmatic about it than he was."

"Because she knew she _had_ to be to get through it." Simon sets his coffee down, untouched. "It was only Peter who had the questionable luxury of being able to worry endlessly about all the 'what ifs'."

"Mm," she says, recalling just how stressed, how… shadowed… he'd been during the harshest days of Grace's treatment.

The unrelenting grey gaze doesn't waver. "He got her through it, you know. Oh, we all played a part, all her friends – some more than others – but it was Peter who _really_ got her through it relatively unscathed. He is… uniquely positioned… to say the sort of things to her that the rest of us would keep firmly to ourselves."

Eve holds his gaze. It's now or never. "Because they sleep together, you mean?"

"Ah well," Simon says, apparently not at all flustered, "that's the whole crux of the matter, isn't it? Though, I happen to know that although the status quo has since been restored they weren't – "

To Eve's unworthy annoyance his potentially fascinating disclosure is interrupted by the distinctive sound of the hydraulics that operate the lab's main doors. They both look towards the noise as Grace appears, still easing herself into a lab coat. The accusing look she gives the pair of them suggests deep suspicion. As she walks towards them, she asks, "Why do I think my ears should be burning?"

Simon gets to his feet with surprising speed and agility for such a big man. "Because you know both of us _far_ too well, darling. How are you?"

Caught in what can only be described as a bear hug, Grace's reply is inaudible, to Eve, at least. When she is released, she is smiling, though a trace of suspicion lingers in her blue eyes. Looking past Simon she says, "I do hope he's been on his best behaviour?"

"I have," the man himself assures her before Eve can answer. "In fact, I've even surprised myself."

"Good."

"Ian will be so proud of me when I tell him."

"You're not out of the building yet," Grace warns him.

"A mere technicality," Simon replies with a sniff. "You arrived just in time. We were just discussing – "

"DNA sampling," Eve interjects. Her voice sounds far higher and thinner than it should.

"I see," Grace says, her tone making it quite clear she doesn't believe the claim for a moment.

Simon put his arm around her waist, guides her towards the chair he vacated. "We weren't, of course. But we can maintain the polite fiction, if you prefer?"

"Oh, God," Grace says, sitting down. "I _knew_ you couldn't be trusted, Simon."

"Harsh," he tells her. "Very harsh, darling. _Real_ secrets are not for dissemination, even _I_ know that."

"Not terribly reassuring. Poor Eve."

"Now, now," Simon says, one hand coming to rest on Grace's shoulder, "credit where credit's due, darling. We've both been the absolute souls of discretion. We'd only _just_ started to broach the subject of your clandestine trysts with the divinely handsome Detective Superintendent, hadn't we, Eve?"

Grace looks rather less disturbed by the revelation than Eve feels. "I see. Well, I'm terribly sorry to have interrupted your gossiping."

Simon laughs, his affection clear in the gentle way he squeezes Grace's shoulder. To Eve, he says, "Try as I might, I can never _quite_ manage to properly horrify her. Peter is a _much_ easier target."

"I've warned you and warned you about teasing him," Grace says, pointedly removing the hand from her shoulder. "You're not going to be popular around here if you've put him in a bad mood for the rest of the day."

He smirks and says, "I have absolute faith in your ability to put a smile back on his face, darling."

"Erm," Eve risks, certain that the conversation has veered a long way past the acceptable. Two pairs of eyes, one grey, one blue, gaze sedately at her in response. She manages a tiny shrug. "Perhaps I should be getting back to work…"

"Ignore him," Grace tells her, completely composed. To Simon, she says, "You and Boyd do have one thing in common, you know – you both always go far too far."

Simon pouts. "Don't be cross with me, darling. I come bearing glad tidings."

Grace looks immediately both sceptical and curious. "Oh?"

"I'm getting married," he announces portentously, and then, as if feeling the need for clarification, adds, "to Ian. Next month at Bansbury House, that divine country hotel in – "

"Married?" Grace interrupts, sounding bemused.

"Yes," Simon confirms, smiling beatifically. "Well, technically it's a civil partnership, of course, but – "

"You're getting _married_?"

"Yes," he repeats with dignified patience, "to Ian. Keep up, dear."

Eve looks from one to the other, not sure how she's supposed to react to news of the forthcoming nuptials of one virtual stranger and a man she's never met and is never likely to. More to save a completely nonplussed-looking Grace than for any other reason, she offers a bright, "Well… um… congratulations."

"Thank you," Simon says with a quick but very genuine smile. He looks at Grace, offers a solicitous, "Are you all right? You look rather… shocked."

Grace shakes her head. "I just… I thought you said marriage was an outdated patriarchal construct designed entirely to – "

"Ah," he says, clearly deciding it's his turn to interrupt, "but that was before I thought about just how much fun we could have organising a wedding. You will be my best… er… woman… of course." It's not a question. "And Peter can perform the same service for Ian. I can't wait to see him decked out in full morning dress."

"Ian," Eve hears herself ask, her voice sounding more than slightly strained, "or Boyd?"

Simon's wicked answering grin is as wide as it is predatory. "My dear, you really shouldn't ask questions like that. I'm bound to get myself in all sorts of trouble trying to frame a suitably diplomatic answer…"

"Oh, God…" is Grace's only contribution. She seems to rally, though, and then shakes her head. "Well, good luck asking him, that's all I can say."

"Actually, darling," Simon says, "I was rather hoping you…"

It's the final straw. For Eve, it is absolutely the final straw. Unable to prevent it, she starts to laugh, and not even a bristling glare from Grace can put a halt to her uncharacteristic, unrestrained mirth.

-oOo-

It's early afternoon when Grace returns – alone – to the lab. Studying hair samples through the refurbished electron microscope that's her absolute pride and joy, Eve casts a cursory glance at her friend and colleague, offers a brief smile, then returns to her task as she asks, "Nice lunch?"

"Very nice, actually," Grace confirms, joining her at the workbench. Hitching herself onto a lab stool, she adds, "That new Italian place on Duchess Street."

"Any good? Sadly for my bank account, I owe Spence a decent dinner."

"Definitely worth a try," Grace tells her. An audible sigh fills the heavy pause that precedes, "Thank you for looking after Simon. I feel as if I should apologise – profusely – for putting you through an unexpected ordeal."

Abandoning any pretence of work, Eve sits up straight and looks at the older woman. There's something almost… uncertain… in Grace's expression. It's unusual, to say the least. Shaking her head, Eve says, "No need at all. Boyd did warn me he was 'a bit of a character'."

Grace responds with a soft, resigned laugh. "Oh, he's that, all right. I'm incredibly fond of him, but he does like to cause a stir wherever he goes."

"I rather got that impression," Eve admits.

"He's a brilliant psychologist," Grace tells her earnestly, as if it's suddenly very important to her to commend her friend. "One of the very best in his field. His partner – Ian – is a solicitor."

Not sure how, or if, the latter piece of information is relevant, Eve settles for, "And now there's to be a wedding."

"So it seems. I have to admit I didn't see _that_ coming." Another pause, longer and more awkward than the first. "I suppose… Well, I suppose nothing he may have said to you about… well, about me and Boyd…"

"Came as a great surprise?" Eve offers, trying to be helpful. As self-possessed as Grace almost always is, there's no doubt that the topic of conversation has huge potential for embarrassment. For all parties concerned. Letting her gaze slide away for a moment, she says, "Honestly? No."

"I thought not."

Choosing her words with care, Eve says, "It's none of my business, Grace, and even if it was… well, I don't put much stock in salacious gossip."

"Even if it's true?" Grace inquires.

Eve keeps her gaze averted. "You're both consenting adults. Nothing to do with me."

"And," Grace says, a sudden edge of dry humour in her voice, "it wouldn't ever cross your mind to be the _least_ bit curious, would it?"

They've known each other long enough, Eve feels, for her to give in, glance back and chuckle as she replies, "I didn't exactly say _that_."

The answering smile is amused, tolerant, and only very slightly tinged with embarrassment. "I think I'd rather you heard it from the horse's mouth, so to speak, than from… an unreliable narrator."

Turning a little on her stool to enable more direct eye contact, Eve says, "I'm not going to ask you, Grace."

The blue eyes hold her steady gaze without difficulty. "I know. But if I was to tell you…?"

"Then that would be entirely your choice."

Grace is silent, as if debating with herself. Eventually she offers, "You do understand the… ramifications… of the situation?"

"I understand," Eve says, once again picking her words carefully, "that the Met has strict policies about intradepartmental relationships – some of which would be difficult to retroactively enforce since they don't technically cover civilian consultants."

Grace nods. "Quite."

"But, I also understand that," Eve continues, "that which isn't strictly _verbotem_ may not be particularly well-received in certain circles, either."

"Exactly." Grace studies her for a long, loaded moment. "It's always been… incredibly complicated."

"You and Boyd?" she guesses.

"Me and Boyd," Grace confirms. She looks away. "It worked until it didn't, and then things were… difficult. For a while."

Understatement, Eve thinks, easily able to recall the strained, difficult months when Boyd and Grace seemed to be perpetually only a hairsbreadth away from viciously tearing into each other at the slightest provocation. She'd had her suspicions then, had been fairly sure she'd understood at least the bare bones of the sudden problem between them, and then, eventually, everything had seemed to settle. After Boyd's son died, even the routine bickering that had always been present between them seemed to largely die away. Then Grace got sick and –

"I can't explain it," Grace murmurs, her attention seemingly all on the smooth white surface of the workbench, "but Boyd and I… it works, Eve. Mostly, and in its own way."

"I know," she says, realising that it's the truth, that somehow, on some level, she really _does_ know, really _does_ understand. "You're better off together than you are apart, Grace, any fool can see that."

"It's not always easy… with this job… You know what it's like. Too much pressure, not enough time." Grace gestures faintly at nothing, or maybe at whatever she sees in her mind's eye. "And he cares. He really _cares_. About the unit, about what we do, what we manage to achieve."

Eve snorts. "_Everyone_ knows that, Grace. Even the cabal of people at the Yard who'd love to see his head stuck on a pike know that."

"They know it," Grace says, her tone laced with bitterness, "but it won't stop them if they see an opportunity to bring him down. He's always been a loose cannon, a thorn in their side. If they thought there was any real truth in the rumours about me and him…"

"They wouldn't hesitate to use it against him," Eve says, beginning to appreciate the true depth of Grace's concern. "Against _both_ of you."

Unusually intense, almost belligerent, Grace says, "Oh, I'd be guilty by association, Eve, no doubt about it, but fortunately, like you, I work for the Home Office, not for the Met. There's a limit to what they can do to me."

Eve is silent, thoughts running smoothly through her mind. Eventually, she asks, "Why are you telling me this, Grace?"

A brief, flickering smile, one that's hesitant, almost resigned. "I don't know. Perhaps… because I need to tell someone? Because I trust you? Because Simon turning up today gave me the excuse I needed?"

Hiding her surprise at the vulnerable tone of the answer, Eve nods. "Good enough reasons."

"Once is a mistake," Grace says, her meaning initially obscure, "but twice is rank stupidity. That's what they say, isn't it? We both got hurt, and we both moved on. It wasn't easy, but we made it. I was… happy… that it was all in the past. Happy that we'd found our way back to being friends. I never expected things to change… again."

"But they did."

Blue eyes regard her with searching intensity. "He _is_ a good man, Eve. Oh, he has his faults, and I'd be the very first to admit it, but fundamentally he's… kind. He…"

"Cares," Eve says, echoing Grace's previous words. "Well, of course he does. People don't stay with the unit because of his easy-going nature and his sunny disposition, do they? They stay because they know he really, _really_ cares."

"Yes." A simple, sincere answer. For a second or two there is silence between them, contemplative silence. Grace hitches a shoulder in a faint shrug. "Simon helped me through it, you know. The break-up. He never took sides, he just provided a shoulder to cry on whenever I needed it. He's been a very good friend to me. To both of us, I suppose. He told Boyd a few home truths, apparently, despite remaining firmly on the fence."

Eve can't help grinning. "Oh, I would've paid good money to be a fly on the wall for _that_ conversation."

Grace allows a quiet chuckle. "I think it would have been quite something to behold, yes. Simon is… well, he's fearless. He… cultivates a certain image, shall we say, but he's tough. He and Boyd… they really are far more alike than either of them would ever like to be told."

"One pretends to be tough to hide his gentleness, the other pretends to be gentle to hide his toughness?"

Grace looks momentarily startled. "That's… very perceptive of you, Eve."

"Not really," she says, dismissive. "Like you, I'm a trained observer."

"Mm."

Thinking of Simon, she inquires, "So, will you go to the wedding?"

"Of course," Grace replies without any hesitation. "If there _is_ a wedding, of course. They have that in common, too – a strong penchant for changing their minds about things on a whim."

"Morning dress," Eve muses aloud. She can almost, _almost_ see Boyd in a long tailcoat. She lets her grin form unencumbered by propriety. "Which, if I'm not very much mistaken, traditionally includes a top hat…"

They stare at each other for a split second before both starting to laugh. Their sudden merriment is interrupted by the sound of the lab doors opening once again. Inevitably, it is Boyd himself who appears, buttoning up his lab coat as he approaches them with his characteristic long, determined stride. The sight of him does nothing at all to quell their unseemly mirth, and as he draws to a stop he looks from Grace to Eve and back, a puzzled and irritable frown beginning to form. Clearly unimpressed, his opening gambit is a peremptory, "What?"

"Nothing," Grace assures him, still chuckling. "Absolutely nothing."

"Huh." The dark suspicion in his gaze doesn't decrease. "Why do I get the feeling that I really don't want to know what you two were gossiping about thirty seconds before I walked in here?"

"Because," Eve suggests, "you're smarter than the average Detective Superintendent, Detective Superintendent?"

He growls low in his throat, looks straight at Grace and demands, "Are you intending to do _any_ bloody work at _all_ today?"

"Quite possibly," she informs him, neither looking nor sounding in the least bit intimidated, "but I thought some… damage limitation… might be advisable first."

"Fucking _Simon_," he says, scowling. "Seriously, Grace? In what possible universe did you think inviting him to meet you _here_ might be a good idea? I mean, _really_…?"

"I rather liked him, actually," Eve says, trying hard to remain deadpan.

The dark gaze shifts focus and settles on her. "I bet you bloody did."

Grace slithers off her lab stool, moves to stand next to him. She is utterly serene as she pats his arm and says, "Come along, light of my life – "

Boyd looks appalled by the epithet. "Oh, dear fucking God…"

" – let's leave Doctor Lockhart to whatever it is she's supposed to be doing. I have some news for you."

"I don't want to know," he grumbles at her, scowling again.

"You do," Grace tells him, effortlessly guiding him into motion, "trust me, you do."

"Trust _me_, Grace, I really don't." Giving Eve a final accusing look, he says, "I need the DNA results for the Highgate case. Preferably before the chief bloody suspect dies of old age."

"It's all in hand," she tells him cheerfully, "along with the other nine hundred and ninety-nine things that you want me to do Right Now Before Anything Else."

Again, he growls, but lets himself be prodded in the direction of the door. Grace glances over her shoulder, smiles and gives Eve a cheeky wink that couldn't be any more deliberate. Turning her head back to Boyd she says something Eve doesn't catch, but it's obvious to her that the two of them are bickering in their usual fashion even before the lab door closes behind them.

_Boyd and Grace_, Eve thinks, as she returns to studying the hair samples. An unlikely but somehow perfectly complementary couple. The last stray thought that crosses her mind as intent scientific consideration of what the electron microscope has revealed takes over is whether or not there might be another, rather more contentious wedding held at some point in the far future…

_\- the end -_


End file.
